


Occupation

by annundriel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3709591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four beds Dorian and Bull share, and one they <strike>don't</strike> didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Occupation

The Bull's room leaves something to be desired. Having spent two weeks camping—alone—in the Hinterlands, however, Dorian is less picky about where he lays his head. At least there's a bed—even if it is adorned with weaponry—and a roof—even if it is adorned with holes.

The mattress, though, the mattress is surprisingly comfortable and the sheets are clean. They smell of the soap used around all Skyhold and the Bull, of sweat and skin and the horn balm he begged Josephine to order. Dorian had never thought much about what his pillows smelled like, but he notices them now when he's back in his own rooms, alone. Notices how there's nothing there but the soap and an absence.

Going back to the Bull's room right after leaving would be madness, embarrassing at the very least. They haven't—He's never stayed the night before, isn't sure if it's something the Bull does, something _they_ do. He thinks he might—well.

There are rifts in the world, he tells himself, madder things happen every day, and closes his door behind him, slips back through the midnight halls, across the moonlit courtyard.  
The Bull is sitting up in bed when Dorian knocks and lets himself in. Two candles lit on the nightstand throw his profile, the lines of muscle and the silver of scars, into relief. Looking at him, Dorian's chest feels full.

"You're back," the Bull says, one hand moving to rest on the book in his lap. "Couldn't get enough?"

Dorian flushes, and for a moment his feet ache to turn around and leave. But his bed is cold and the sheets smell like nothing and the Bull is _here_ in all of his...his...annoying largeness and he's _reading_ and Dorian is a weak, weak man.

"Something like that," he says. He lets the door shut behind him, half-turns to turn the latch. His fingers pause on the metal. "You don't mind, do you?"

The gaze that meets him is unreadable, still and dark across the room. Dorian feels assessed in a way he hasn't since he was a boy being schooled and quizzed on ancient Tevinter history. He almost feels more laid bare than he felt when he was, literally, laid bare. But then the corners of Bull's mouth lift, which crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he's beaming at Dorian, big hand moving from book to bed to pat the space left (meant) for Dorian.

Shedding his clothes is easy, and the sheets are warm from the Bull. They smell of him, and of Dorian, both of them mixed together, and that does something to Dorian, settles and unsettles his heart at the same time. It's disconcerting and strangely addicting and as he settles in he can't help but smile at the Bull, lean close, ask him what he's reading.

*

The Hissing Wastes aren't bad, all things considered. The Bull even finds them relaxing, especially compared to some of the places they've been. There's not the unrelenting rain and undead of the Fallow Mire or the rain and the darkspawn (and the memories of...well) of the Storm Coast or the rain and the—Andraste's tits, he's just happy it's not fucking _raining_ to be perfectly honest. Much as he does appreciate the way it accentuates the figures and forms of the Inquisition, it makes fighting that much more difficult, tends to blur his vision. Makes Dorian wet and cranky and less likely to strip in the field despite Bull's insistence that they should _remove these wet things immediate—Dorian, where are you go—what do you mean you need another set of robes, can't you just—_

So the Hissing Wastes are fine. Big, open spaces. Views that seem to go on forever. Nights that last suspiciously long. (He'd asked Dorian about it once, and Dorian had shrugged and sighed and said, "I really don't give a damn anymore, my body can't take it," but he'd seen the books Dorian had brought to Bull's rooms later, had smirked at him quietly until Dorian had said, "Oh, do stop being insufferable and suck my cock," which the Bull had been only too happy to do.) And, to be honest, he likes the sound of the dunes, the grains of sand shifting against each other in the wind.

What he likes even more is how Dorian's given up pitching his own tent in favor of claiming half of Bull's.

"You could help, you know," Dorian says, bending to roll out his bedroll.

The Bull crosses his arms and stays firmly in the tent's entrance. "And miss this view?" He tilts his head, the better to appreciate the curve of Dorian's ass (it's a very good curve, and an exceptional ass). "No, thank you."

Dorian huffs, and it's amusement the Bull hears, amusement and fondness. It makes him feel good, stepping into his tent— _their_ tent—and seeing Dorian there, seeing him roll out his bed so close to Bull's own. Watching him nudge it closer with a surreptitious glance over his shoulder that they both know the Bull sees.

"It's the closest we can get to a two-man bedroll." Dorian straightens and turns to him. It's the first time he's flat-out admitted that this sharing of space outside of Skyhold is anything other than convenience or to ward off the cold. His boots are already off, and his staff is leaning against a box in the corner, his pack next to it. A brazier burns, and the Bull watches Dorian's toes curl against the floor of the tent. There's something vulnerable in the movement, and the Bull's palms itch to reach out, pull Dorian close. Wrap him up and keep him warm, keep him safe. Despite the fact that Dorian is more than capable of taking care of himself. The first time Bull watched him beat the crap out of a corpse when his spells no longer worked? Holy shit.

The Bull enters the tent fully, letting the flap slip closed behind him. "Maybe we can requisition one from Josephine. Scandalize everyone."

Chuckling, Dorian looks up at him, leans into the Bull's palm when he reaches up and touches the side of his face. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Shock the lot of them."

Dorian's skin is smooth against his hand, the slightest prickle of stubble along his jaw. Against his fingertips, Dorian's hair is soft. The Bull has touched many, has experienced much, but he's never felt the particular flutter that happens behind his ribcage when he looks at Dorian, never felt the specific warmth he feels when he touches him, when Dorian's eyes open and look up at him, a familiar something reflected back.

"You'd like it, too," Bull says, then leans down to fit their mouths together, to taste the amusement on Dorian's tongue, kiss him deep and sweet before taking him to their makeshift bed.

*

The bed is big enough for the both of them and that in and of itself is some sort of miracle. Dorian stretches, luxuriating in the pull of well-used muscles, the feel of silken sheets against his skin. The fact that he isn't half falling off of the bed. Beside him, the Bull licks his fingers, each one sliding from his mouth wetly. Against his thigh, Dorian's prick stirs, and he groans.

The Bull glances at him, mouth curving around the tip of his finger. That finger, that great finger that previously—just that night in fact—had slipped between Dorian’s cheeks, pressed against his hole. Fucked him slowly while Dorian had squirmed, desperate and clutching, in the Bull’s lap.

Dorian flushes, which only makes the Bull grin harder.

“Is there something you wanted, kadan?” he asks, hand moving back to the plate propped in his lap. It’s laden with fruits and cheeses, crackers and bits of bread. A fragrant orange Dorian believes is the source of the licking.

There is. There are several things Dorian wants; to stay in bed all day, to feel the Bull’s mouth on him again (he really is quite talented with his tongue), to press his own fingers into the Bull and feel him open around him. There are many things he can think of that include variations of mouths and hands and fingers, tongues. Cocks.

And then there’s this: the Bull by his side when he dozes off, still there when he awakes. The Bull a steady presence at his side throughout the day, laughing at his jokes, goading him to do better, to be better. Dorian giving him the same. It’s sentimental and embarrassing, and Dorian clears his throat, feels relieved when his stomach growls.

“Are you going to share any of that?” he asks, lifting himself up on one elbow. “Or am I going to have to venture into the wilds of Orlais and fend for myself?”

The Bull chuckles, and the sound warms him. “Would I let you starve? I don’t think so.” He picks up a wedge of bread, scooping some of the gelatinous orange spread onto it. “Here,” he says, holding it out. “You’ve got to try this.”

Reaching to take it, the move is aborted when the Bull moves his hand back. Dorian pouts at him, and the Bull pouts back, an exaggerated version that makes Dorian laugh. He shrugs, opens his mouth, and waits.

“Good,” the Bull all but purrs, and Dorian flushes, toes curling against the sheets, goose pimples rising on his flesh. Though whether that’s the tone of Bull’s voice, the quality of his gaze, or the breeze coming through the windows, Dorian isn’t entirely sure.

He opens his mouth wider at the first touch of bread to lips, takes what the Bull offers him. Bites down and is surprised by the burst of tart sweetness on his tongue, the way it mingles with the rich almost earthy taste of the bread. He moans as he chews, eyes slipping shut only to open at the touch of the Bull’s thumb to the corner of his mouth, wiping away a bit of the jam.

“Good, kadan,” the Bull repeats, and this time when Dorian shivers he knows it’s all because of the Bull.

“Kadan,” he says, swallowing. “You’ve used that before. It’s Qunlat, yes?”

The Bull’s hand freezes halfway to his mouth, but then he nods, licks the jam off of his thumb. “It is.”

Dorian’s heart races in his chest. He thinks he knows the answer, but—“And it means?”

“My heart,” the Bull says, gaze unwavering. Dorian feels pinned by it, pinned the way he wants to be pinned. Pinned the way he’s wanted to be pinned since he was old enough to understand the longing in his heart.

“Ah.” He clears his throat. “Well. I think that’s…” He shifts so he’s sitting, reaches for the Bull. His hand shakes until he touches that familiar, scarred face. They steady, then, and his heart takes on a new rhythm. “That’s good, amatus,” he says. “Very good.”

The Bull’s grin is blinding, and his hands are large and warm and just the right kind of rough. The food ends up somewhere with a clatter, but Dorian’s too busy to care. They’ll just call for more later.

*

Suledin Keep is large and drafty and _cold_. Andraste’s tits, is it cold. Maybe it’s the time of year, the wind taking on that much more of a bite, the ground feeling that much colder, but where the Bull doesn’t usually mind Emprise du Lion _that_ much, he’s having a hard time handling it. Especially after their trek from point A to point B.

Grumbling, he wraps his arms tighter around his middle and sinks down in his chair, stretches his feet out to the fire. He wishes he was back in Skyhold where the winter weather hasn’t hit them yet. Though the mountain air is chilly, many of the rooms are mostly repaired, especially his own. He made sure of that after he woke up to find Dorian swaddled in all of his blankets.

Dorian crashes through the doorway now, two mugs of something steaming held tight in one hand. The tip of his nose is pink, as are his cheeks, and the Bull’s chest feels full and tight. He shifts a little, pretending his harness needs readjusting, all the while know that’s not the case at all.

They’ve said the words. Well. Not _the_ words. The other words. He knows enough Tevene to know what _amatus_ means. Knows enough about Dorian to know what it means that he’s said it, that the word springs to his lips when he reaches for Bull, palms open and fingers spread, eyes bright and dark and hot.

“Maker’s _balls_ , it’s fucking freezing,” Dorian says, shutting the door behind him. “Why did I let the Inquisitor talk me into coming this time? What possible reason could I have for being here? It’s snowing again, did you see?”

Shaking his head, the Bull stands, meets Dorian partway between the door and the bed. “You would’ve missed my company.”

Dorian snorts, but his mouth curves at the edges. “Because I don’t get enough of you back ho—at Skyhold.”

“Uh huh. You can never get enough of this, admit it, Dorian. You’re insatiable.”

“You tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better. Here,” he says, holding out one of the mugs. “I brought you something.”

“What—Is that cocoa?” He can smell now that they’re closer, can see the frothy goodness over the mug’s rim. “Oh, Dorian,” he says, reaching for it, feeling the warmth of the mug seep into his fingers. “Oh, kadan. You know me so well.”

Clearing his throat, Dorian takes a sip of his own cocoa before brushing past the Bull and setting it on the nightstand. He sits on the bed, bending to pull off his boots. The Bull savors the cocoa, the bitter sweetness of it washing over his tongue, filling him with warmth, and watches him wiggle his newly freed toes. It’s…cute. It’s cute and it makes him feel fond, his hands itching to reach out and touch.

He crosses the room and sets his drink down beside Dorian’s, sits beside him on the bed. Crowding him a little, but Dorian doesn’t complain. Dorian, in fact, leans into him.

“Your footsies freezing, Dorian?” He wonders if Dorian remembers that conversation that seems so long ago now, back in the Hinterlands when they’d barely met, when Dorian eyed him with suspicion and Bull eyed him back with the same.

Dorian nudges him the side with his elbow. “They are, actually, yes. My footsies are—hmmph!”

He doesn’t normally manhandle Dorian—usually it’s only when they’re both naked and sweaty and panting, when the ease with which he lifts Dorian makes Dorian clutch at him and groan, beg him for more—but he does now, shifting him until his back is against the pillows, his feet in the Bull’s lap.

“What’re you—?”

“Doing something about your footsies,” the Bull says, and proceeds to take one of Dorian’s feet in his hands, rubbing at it with firm fingers, discovering all of the spots that make Dorian’s fingers clutch and tighten in the coverlet, all of the places that make him bite his lip and moan.

It’s a good sight, good sounds. It’s a good place to be, despite the drafty room, and when Dorian reaches for him—palms open, fingers spread—the Bull goes, presses him to the mattress, tucks them both between the sheets. Doesn’t mind so much when the cocoa goes cold.

**

Somehow, they’ve never done anything in Dorian’s room at Skyhold. It’s always been the Bull’s that they stumble to, or head for directly. The Bull’s room where they fall asleep tangled with the sheets, Dorian trying not to bump anything sharp with his extremities. The Bull’s room or other more public parts of Skyhold. Not so public as to be _caught_ , really, but one day someone else will surely find the room beneath the main hall, tucked away and full of books, and then they’ll be out of luck.

Or maybe not out of luck. Dorian enjoys their meetings a little too much to give them up, if he’s being honest with himself.

He’s getting better at being honest with himself. _Gotten_ better. He thinks he has the Bull to thank for that. And the Inquisitor, to a certain extent. They’ve been good for him. As he’s been for them, he’d like to think. In completely different ways.

He sighs, and looks around his room. Takes in the fireplace—fire blazing, thank the Maker—and chairs before it, the small table between them, the desk near the window, the bed and nightstands. The books and scraps of parchment scattered here and there. He wonders what the Bull would see, looking around it, what kind of man he’d assume Dorian was if he didn’t know him at all. If he’d still want—

The knock on the door startles him, and before he can say anything the Bull is pushing it open, ducking his head to enter.

“So this is where the magic happens,” he says, shutting the door behind him. He waggles his eyebrow. “Literally.”

“Vishante—You are terrible,” Dorian says, shaking his head, “you know that? I can’t believe I lo—” He swallows hard, biting his tongue.

The Bull is watching him, frozen, it seems, in place. His eye is wide and dark and unreadable. “Can’t believe you what?”

Dorian shakes his head, swallows hard again. Feels something akin to panic rise in his throat. “Nothing,” he says. He reaches for a scrap of paper on the table before the fire, focuses on the texture of it against his fingertips. “Nothing. I can’t believe I put up with you, that’s all.”

“Dorian.”

The Bull is much closer than he was before. How did that happen? Maybe this is why they never do anything in Dorian’s room; it’s too small. It’s too small, and the Bull is too big, and Dorian doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. This was supposed to be fun, and it is, it’s a lot of fun. More fun than Dorian’s ever had before. But it’s also…it’s also…

“Dorian,” the Bull repeats. “ _Kadan_.” And his hand—his big, rough, warrior’s hand—is gentle on Dorian’s chin, fingers tipping his face upward to meet his own. His mouth is wide and warm and surprisingly soft. He smells of leather and soap and sweat, of the horn balm Dorian had to talk to Josephine to special order (and then keep a secret). He is heartbreakingly familiar and terrifyingly new, and Dorian isn’t sure what he’s doing, but he thinks he’s passed the point of no return.

And between one breath and the next, it’s okay. There are no hands—other than his own—that he trusts as he trusts the Bull’s. No hands he’d rather on his chin, no mouth he’d rather on his mouth.

He nods against the Bull, kisses him back. “Amatus, yes. I—yes.”

Taking the Bull’s hand in his own, he leads him to the bed.


End file.
